When I was a late teenager,

I and my cronies

went to noble Bournemouth

to visit the clubs:

we gave ourselves fake IDs

saying that we lived in Highcliffe,

or Friar’s Cliff, or the like,

anywhere but Southampton.

It saved us a beating,

and worked a treat;

until our natural obnoxiousness

obtained our defeat.

After that, we drove down

to visit the parks,

paddle-boating on the lake,

such larks.

Now, older by far,

I fondly remember Bournemouth,

Dorset’s fair star.


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